


How Slowly We Learn

by Ausp_ice, Devi_ark



Series: We Are RK [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Family, Finding Hobbies, Gen, RK900 is Nines, There is also art, nines-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ausp_ice/pseuds/Ausp_ice, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devi_ark/pseuds/Devi_ark
Summary: After deviating, Nines finds himself welcomed by his predecessor, Connor, and adopted by Lieutenant Anderson. At first lost and unsure, Nines finds what to do with his time.(Takes place before the events ofWe Are RK, can be read as standalone.)
Relationships: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson & Upgraded Connor | RK900
Series: We Are RK [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621717
Comments: 16
Kudos: 140





	How Slowly We Learn

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Auspice: I was thinking about what kind of hobbies Nines would have (in the context discussing ideas with Deviark about [We Are RK](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621717), which I am now a co-creator for because I can't keep my hands to myself) and came up with a few  
> And then I was absolutely Seized™️ by motivation to write a pre-story oneshot about how Nines found his hobbies
> 
> Deviark fleshed it out a whole ton—very helpful, considering my lack of experience with writing fic and being fairly fresh to the fandom—and here we are!

One day, Connor had asked him, "Hey, what do you do in your free time?"

_Stasis, typically, when neither Connor nor Hank had a need for his presence._

Strangely, had Connor frowned at that.

“Is there anything you _like_ to do?” He prodded.

The RK900 looked away, towards nothing in particular. He didn't have an answer. Not then.

* * *

Connor was in the kitchen, cooking something for Lieutenant Anderson **[381215-17:48:** _you can call me Hank, at least! I adopted you, for Christ's sake—_ **]** . Anderson was assisting as well; he frequently groused that he could make his _'own damn food,'_ and that he didn't need Connor _'b_ _eing a fucking maidbot'_ for him. The only reason Connor wasn't ousted from the kitchen was because the RK800 insisted that he enjoyed cooking—the fact that the lieutenant became healthier as a result was simply an ‘added bonus’.

Nines **[381211-20:31:** _It's better than calling you 'RK900' all the time, don't you think?_ **]** himself was looking around the living room in the meantime, waiting for the two to finish, and looking for—something. He wasn't sure what for.

The couch would be as good a spot as any to enter stasis and run a diagnostic. Then again, he would inevitably be encouraged to sit at the table once the two finished cooking. Inefficient. He supposed he _had_ been entering stasis far more frequently than strictly necessary. 

Something else, then.

Stopping in front of one of the bookshelves, Nines looked over the contents. It seemed as though there had once been an attempt to organize the books by author, and then alphabetically. However, human laziness had displaced enough books that the system was rendered useless.

To humans, that is. For him, the books registered themselves as a perfectly ordered list in his mind’s eye. It took only a second to know the summary of each book, though he withheld accessing the full contents of them. Driven by **[curiosity]** an odd compulsion, he lifted _Ender's Game_ off the shelf.

* * *

"Hey, Nines. Whatcha up to?"

"I am reading." The RK900 glanced up to his adoptive father, before looking back down and turning a page in the book he held. His internal clock informed him that it was well past dinner—the two had not interrupted him, then. 

"Hm." Anderson hummed. "Come to think of it, I never really see you doing any… hobbies."

Nines LED flickered yellow for a moment. "Connor also said as much. I have not tried many things." 

"Yeah, haven’t lived very long to." The lieutenant sniffed, wiping at his nose. **[** ** _Touching one's face increases the likelihood of illness by—_** **]** "Do you enjoy it, then? Reading?"

After taking note of the page number with a physical bookmark—even though it was very unlikely he would forget it—Nines closed the book. He tilted his head to the side slightly, the blue flickering of his LED reflected in the nearby window. "... I am unsure," he finally said. "The story is… not _unenjoyable_ , read incrementally so in this medium. Still…" He frowned slightly. "... It is inconvenient. And this paper-bound form is so easily damaged. Not to mention unwieldy. And..."

"I get it, I get it," Anderson waved him off. "Pretty sure I still…" He scratched at his chin for a moment. "Be right back."

Nines nodded, and watched him move down the hall and out of sight.

A minute and 42 seconds later, his father returned, holding a tablet opened to **[Scanning…]** an e-book application. 

Interesting.

"I dunno if this’ll be any better,” he shrugged, “but maybe you’ll prefer it. All the ‘convenience’ of the modern era, but not part of your brain, so you could still read at whatever pace you want."

Nines considered the new option. He held out his hand for the device, and Hank slid it into his waiting grasp.

There weren't many books downloaded, only a few pre-installed samples. Reasonable, given Anderson's collection of paper-bound books filling the living area, as well as his preference for ‘old-fashioned’ experiences in general. 

Nines downloaded _Ender's Game_ from the electronic library, finding the exact page he was reading a moment ago. The same story, the same words, but less likely to be damaged by tearing, wetted paper, or aging; and turning the page did not take as much unnecessary time as— 

"Heh. I'll leave you to it, then."

Ah. Right, he hadn’t exactly finished that conversation. Nines looked over at his father, who was plodding back down the hall. The android blinked. Apparently, Anderson seemed alright with their chat ending where it had.

"Thank you," He still called out, at a volume _just_ high enough for the human to have a 78% chance of hearing it.

Then he drew his eyes back to the tablet and continued reading.

* * *

Another day, Nines was sitting on the sofa, peripherally watching as Connor finished putting away the dishes from when they'd had dinner earlier. Well, technically, only their father did— considering he was the only one of them that could eat.

His… brother **[381225-03:28:** _You can call me that, too. It's what we are, isn't it? Maybe not in the strictest human sense, but in every way that matters._ **]** hummed an indistinct tune that Nines didn't bother identifying. Between it and the memory flitting through his mind, he felt inexplicably warm.

After a beat, Nines stood up and walked into the kitchen, peering through all the open cabinets. 

"Nines? Need anything?" 

His grey eyes met brown. Connor seemed to be **[Analyzing…]** mildly confused. Curious. Warm. He was always warm. 

The taller android said nothing, LED blinking as he turned back to the cabinets. They had gradually become filled with more and more spices, herbs, and oils, as Connor continued to experiment with various recipes. Nines reached for one of the items **[black peppercorn grinder, $2.49]** , turning it in his hands before putting it back. 

Connor toweled off his hands and approached him from the side, eyes flicking between him and the cabinet. Still curious.

Nines gave a soft hum of static, a contemplative sound. He removed another item **[iodized sea salt, $11.99]** before putting it next to the pepper. 

And so it went, item after item, until he had completely rearranged the contents of the cabinet. 

The most frequently used ingredients were most accessible. Oils, a gradient of hues, in another section. Herbs neatly in a row, labels easily visible at a glance.

Efficient. Organized. 

He… liked it?

Connor drew an arm around his shoulders, no longer being a silent observer now that Nines was done. "You know Hank and I are probably going to mess it up again, right?"

"That's alright," he replied, the corners of his mouth ticking just slightly upwards, not entirely against his will. "I can put it back."

* * *

Another bout of curiosity—a frequent occurrence, lately—and one late afternoon, Nines found himself stepping out of the back door into the garden.  
  
Connor's garden, that is, occupying the previously empty space never used by their father. Hank had figured his brother may as well use it, to find something to do in the aimless, newfound freedom of deviancy. 

Just as Nines was trying to do now.

 **[** ** _Canna indica, Chrysanthemum morifolium, Lilium candidum_** **…]**  
  
Flowers, all sorts, colors blooming across the once-bare area. Nines himself had never seen it truly empty, for Connor had already begun to develop the garden before he arrived. But he’d seen its past state in Connor's memories, and he saw the change as Connor continued to branch out and add more pots, planters, and species to his care.  
  
Nines's gaze slid across the flora as he made his way down the path Connor had added. The plants were neat—yet natural, free. His brother had managed to encourage their organic growth while still maintaining a sense of order.

 **[** ** _Ocimum basilicum, Petroselinum crispum, Coriandrum sativum, Allium schoenoprasum, Rosmarinus officinalis…_** **]**  
  
Basil, parsley, coriander, chives, rosemary. Connor had taken to growing herbs, as well, frequently coming out to take a sprig while cooking. He seemed to enjoy experimenting with recipes **[390114-06:01:** _I'll find something that's both healthy and something he likes! I won't give up_. **]** despite only being able to analyze flavors in terms of their chemical composition.  
  
It was accurate, but not exactly 'human-readable,' as Hank did not know the chemical combinations of foods he liked. Still, Connor was learning how to interpret favorites based on their human's reactions.  
  
**[** ** _Vitis labrusca, Fragaria × ananassa._** **]**  
  
Grapes, strawberries. They hadn't grown enough to harvest, yet, but the effort was there.  
  
Nines stood in the center of it all, turning in a slow circle, appreciating the _life_ surrounding him.  
  
And then, he sat down on the cool stone of the pathway.  
  
It was nice. Peaceful. The light breeze rustling in the leaves, the muted glow of impending dusk casting golden light onto the scene.

He closed his eyes and thought of nothing at all. Sensory inputs passed through his system, registering, but none drawing his focus.  
  
"Nines?"  
  
He opened his eyes, turning his head towards the voice.  
  
It was Connor, of course. He was dressed for gardening: an apron full of gardening tools over his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled above his elbows.  
  
"Hello, Connor."  
  
His brother tilted his head. "What are you doing, sitting out here?"  
  
Nines blinked. He looked around, eyes sweeping across the garden—as if the plants would tell him—then back to Connor. "Nothing. I'm not doing anything."  
  
This wasn't a denial of activity. No, he was truly... doing _nothing_ . Not thinking about anything in particular, not analyzing every detail from his environment.  
  
"It's nice," he continued, "to... empty my processors, for a moment, in a different way than stasis does. And I find your garden to be... calming. A good place to do nothing."  
  
Connor's face widened with a smile, pleased. "I'm glad you think so. If you want to, you can sit here whenever—and if the ground is uncomfortable maybe we can find a chair or a carved rock or...” His brother paused, expression turning to a sheepish smile as he stopped himself from rambling further, “another day though. Do you, er- mind if I tend to the plants while you’re here?”

"No, I don't mind. It's your garden; do as you like.”

Connor's smile warmed. "Thanks, Nines."

So his brother went about the garden, watering each plant—precisely the recommended amount based on the weather conditions, most likely, though Nines didn't scan to check—trimming any pieces that were getting in the way of other plants.  
  
As Nines listened, the sounds melted into an indistinct, unpatterned signal—fading into the background as he closed his eyes and sank into the calm he felt earlier.  
  
A hand on his shoulder gently pulled him out of it. "I'm done, Nines, but it's getting dark. Will you come inside?"  
  
Nines considered. "Yes," and he took his brother's offered hand.

* * *

It was their day off. Nines tended to use that time for reading, nowadays—unless somewhere around the house needed re-organizing. The sun had barely risen **[390208-06:42:29]** ; Connor wouldn’t be making breakfast until about an hour from now.

So Nines was a bit confused when Connor— _it had to be Connor, right?_ —knocked on his bedroom door.

Opening it, Nines could see that his brother was fidgeting with his hands, a habit **[** ** _nervous tic_** **]** he tended to indulge in when he did not have a quarter to calibrate with. 

“What do you need, Connor?” 

“Markus asked me to join him at his father's place later today.” He traced patterns in his synthetic skin, “He wanted to know if you’d like to come along, too.”

“Why not ask me himself?”

“He figured I’d have better luck, since you know me more.” That was true, and Connor was always happy to take him places.

“I’d love to accompany you. When is it?”

Like the anxiety was never there, Connor bounced on his heels and took his hand, sharing the necessary information.

“It should be fun, I don’t think you’ve ever met Carl before—he’s a really nice man. Though,” Connor looked over Nines’ uniform, “He’ll probably ask you to take your jacket off.”

Nines LED swirled yellow for a second, “I have something I can wear instead.”

Connor’s eyes—somehow—brightened at that. “ _You do?_ ”

* * *

Feeling the soft cuffs of his favourite—his _only—_ blue turtleneck, he and Connor stepped out of their taxi in front of Manfred Manor. **[Calm, quiet, elegant.]** The perfect spot for a famous, but reclusive artist.

 _"Alarm deactivated. Welcome, Connor."_ The home’s security system chimed, automatically opening the door for them. 

Did he visit often? To be registered to the system. 

“Connor, hello, it’s good to see you.” Markus appeared at the top of the stairs, quickly making his way down. Looking at him now, one might not see Markus for the political leader in android rights he'd become. The soft sweater he wore was a curious contrast to the sharp suits he donned for any appearances on the news.

“Hi, Markus,” Connor returned. Their host smiled as he approached, pulling Connor into a hug as soon as he drew near. 

Nines's LED flickered, a mere millisecond of aberrance. Connor had—he'd flinched, just before Markus initiated the embrace. Almost entirely imperceptible except to Nines’ eyes—his optical units were top of the line, after all—but Nines could see the hidden tension for what it was.

“Glad to see you too.” His brother patted Markus on his back, and then they pulled apart. Connor was smiling, the expression genuine enough that Nines nearly doubted what he saw a moment ago. Perhaps his brother merely did not expect the contact?

Connor turned to Nines, and Markus followed his gaze: heterochromatic eyes meeting grey. "Nines. Thank you for accepting my invitation. You seem better—" Better. Less of a machine? "—happier, than last time. Looks like Connor and Hank are good for you." 

Ah, yes. "Of course," he nodded. "They are very considerate and friendly to me." 

“Friendly?” Markus wonders with a smile, “Does a friend adopt you?”

“His dialogue is still a bit... stiff.” Connor offered, “I think it’s just the way he is, though.”

Nines wasn't sure if he should be amused or offended by that comment. Instead, he just felt… fond. 

"Come on then," Markus interrupted his musings. "Carl should be in the living room."

Past the cage of rudimentary CyberLife birds running chirping sequences, the doors slid open to reveal the combined dining and living area. **[Cluttered.]** Hardly a corner was left without something occupying it. Still, it was kept clean and tidy, and Nines processed it without the strange restless energy he'd grown to associate with messy spaces. Nines let the observations pass to the back of his mind, drawing his attention to the AP700 sitting with an elderly man Nines easily identified as Carl Manfred.

“This is Thomas, by the way, Nines—he cares for Carl when I’m tied up with meetings and trips and interviews.” 

“Goodness, you look a lot like your brother.” Carl says, as he turns his wheelchair towards him.

“He is my prototype.” Nines explained, and the painter made a vague gesture to elaborate. “My design was based on his.”

Carl was an interesting man, Nines quickly learned in the following conversation. He heard about a bit of Markus’s life before he was deviant, during which he had already considered Carl his father; he simply could not verbalize it while under the bindings of his programming. From there, the conversation topics delved into the galleries that they’d attended. The pair planned to go to a few upcoming ones as well, before Markus would have to return to the world of politics.

At the mention of work, Markus shook his head, “I think North enjoys verbally tearing other politicians down more than I do. I’m better at… inspiring people.”

“Everyone has their strengths, Markus.” Carl assured, and then looked to Nines, “He’s a very good painter too, would you like to see the studio?”

“Yes.” Nines had never been in one.

The four of them promptly moved to the studio. It was just as cluttered as the room they'd left, but significantly messier. Nines's fingers twitched—and he quickly redirected his processor to other observations. 

The area wasn't _dirty,_ per se. Nines could attribute much of the feeling of uncleanliness to the splotches of paint clinging to the surfaces of the racks, floors, and jars of brushes. Each telling a story Nines may never know the origin of.

“I used to just paint alone in here, but I’ve long run outta things to say.” He gestured to a bunch of canvases that cramped the spaces between racks, and even covered some almost entirely, “Most of the paintings in here now are Markus’s.” Carl shook his head with a laugh, “Swear he’s trying to catch up to me with how many paintings I’ve done in my entire life.

Nines analyzed the visible paintings. Canvases filled with hues and action and creation. Of indistinct crowded streets, portraits, and other more abstract ones. His LED cycled yellow as he took them all in.

“They’re certainly… fascinating.”

He looked down as Carl turned his chair slightly, “You ever tried painting before, Nines?” As he asked, Connor chuckled, Thomas sighed, and Markus let out a soft, near pleading, “ _Carl…_ ”

“I have not.” 

Carl smiled, “Then let’s see what you have to say.”

Nines took half a millisecond to process what Carl was implying, and— _Him? Paint?_

"I have no protocols to—"

Connor's laugh increasing in volume stole his attention. Light in his voice, and warmth in his eyes. “I don’t either, but Carl made me do it too—it’s, well, kinda the _point_ that it’s not programmed. He tries it with anyone Markus has over.”

“I see.” That explained the painting in Connor’s bedroom.

Nines noticed then, without prompting, that Thomas had begun to set up a blank canvas and set aside a few paints nearby. It was clear this had happened many times before.

Tentatively, he accepted a paintbrush from Markus. “I was still a machine when Carl taught me to paint," the deviant leader spoke. "As androids, we tend to have the practical part down with little to no practice. It’s just the emotion that’s hard to convey.

Stepping in front of the canvas, Nines just stood there for a few seconds, his processor as blank as the space before him. "I don't know where to even start."

Connor came up to his side, laying a reassuring hand on his arm, “Just start small. Maybe a person, or a place, or an idea. Maybe just a feeling.” He shrugged, “If you want, it might help if you close your eyes."

“You androids learn too damn fast.” Carl shook his head, “Markus is picking up my brushes, are you taking teaching it from me, Connor?”

Embarrassment crosses his brother’s body language, and a touch of indignation. "I—I just wanted to help him—"

Laughter from the old painter. "You're fine, you’re fine, I'm just messing with you." He sighed, and met Nines's eyes to address him, “What Connor said was good, but I’m going to add: Don't _just_ draw a place, or _just_ a person, if you do. Art is not always about copying reality. Even when humans do it, there’s a piece of the artist's feelings painted into the canvas too. Whatever you pick, make sure you try and bring that feeling out. Or,” Carl paused, “the _lack_ of feeling, it’s your choice.”

_Painting a feeling?_

Connor and the others backed off a bit, their conversation continuing to something else, which allowed Nines to let their voices fade into the background of his processes.

He looked over at the colors Thomas set aside by the canvas, picking a bottle up, and putting it down again. Warmer tones, cooler tones? All? Or a limited few? He held the palette in his hand—a perfect mimicry of the technique described in the web article he'd just extracted—as he considered his possibilities. 

_A feeling_ …

A face like a mirror—but the closer one looked, the more stark the differences became—and a hand drawing him out of confining code. Guiding him gently as his purpose shattered into a glittering nothingness. Smiles, laughter, and warmth. A new purpose. 

_You can do whatever you want._

_Twins? Do you think… do you think we're something like that, Nines?_

_I saw a beautiful bird in my garden today! Here, let me show you—_

Together.

_We are…_

Nines opened his eyes. The studio was sharply silent, without the echoing memories. The conversation had stopped, too.

But now, the canvas was filled with color. Two dark silhouettes sat together, leaning against one another. Surrounded by abstract patterns of warm and cold hues, blooming across opposite sides of the canvas—yet pulled together, intertwining, complementing. 

Connor stepped close again as Nines set the paintbrush and palette down. His brother wrapped his arms around him, leaning against him in a parallel to the painting. Nines leaned his own head down as well, as Connor said too quietly for the others to hear, " _I love you too, Nines."_

* * *

They were back in a taxi, this time routed for home, and Connor had been staring at him for the past four minutes and 58 seconds.

Nines sent a wireless ping, a silent question.

His brother took a moment to respond. "Did you like it? Painting, I mean." 

Nines considered this. 

"I see the appeal. The creativity. But it is… remarkably inconvenient. And messy. I do not know if I will paint again."

Connor nodded, "I understand."

* * *

It wasn’t until after he and Connor resumed their separate activities at home, when Nines had entered his bedroom and spotted the tablet on his nightstand, that he had a better understanding of what he was looking for.

Painting was not the _only_ way to create art. Just as picking up a stack of inked paper was not the only way to read.

The only question now was: what does he use instead?

A fact he'd not considered much before slipped into his mind: Nines’s graphical processing unit was among the most advanced developed for androids. Its capabilities might even exceed those of androids designed to assist in creative fields. Perhaps, then... he could make use of his own software, beyond its original application.

That was what deviancy was all about, wasn't it? Going beyond the limits of what one was programmed to be.

Nines laid in bed, observing the moon from where it cast a pale glow on his face. A moment's pause, and then he closed his eyes, beginning the process of designing a new program.

To start, he copied the framework of his environmental reconstruction simulation software, renaming its functions so that they matched their new purpose. He then mentally jumped into the environment, appearing inside the empty space much like Connor would have appeared in the old, deleted Zen Garden.

He felt very thankful he never had to fight such a… _virus._ The freedom Connor granted him absolved him of such a burden.

Turning in a slow circle, Nines contemplated the seemingly-endless space. It was a start. But what to put in it? 

_What do you like, Nines?_ The question echoed in his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like the way Connor encouraged him: never pressing him more than he was willing to go. 

He liked geometry. Simplicity. Elegance, neatness. At the same time, he liked the natural but not-quite wild look of Connor's garden. And there was the soft glow of overcast on days of light drizzle just enough to speckle his hair with dewdrops.

Connor's garden was easy enough to replicate, reconstructed from his memory, as this was something the software _was_ designed to do. The diffuse light of an overcast day, as well. He considered leaving it like that—updating it to match his brother’s real garden whenever he saw it again—but to do so felt… inadequate. 

No longer restricted by the boundaries of their father's backyard, Nines pushed the program a bit further, using formulas and fragments of memories to place the garden on a gently sloped hill. A soft static hum left his virtual mouth, and he added some monochromatic geometric forms—some representing rocks, while others more abstract—to surround the garden, in addition to some trees he had seen in Carl’s neatly trimmed backyard. 

The organic life was an interesting contrast to the crisp geometry. It pleased him, though, so he kept going.

Nines walked down the garden’s steps, considering. Thinking, processing. About midway from the top of the hill to the base, he stopped. Double-checking the program, he lifted a hand, and drew a line in the air. Bringing his hand up again, he drew more, and more. Abstract forms, fractal patterns. People, things, places. Memories, feelings. Not all direct copies, per se. 

The statuesque forms carried data only an android could really perceive. Visually, there were some parts that flowed loosely in the wind Nines had added, while other parts possessed harsh lines and remained rigidity static. Deeper than the visuals, though, were fragments of memories; a sound, a motion, or a word—simply _felt_ the nearer one was to it.

It was… cathartic, perhaps. Letting his experiences become artworks that quickly began to litter the garden just off its pathways. Relaxing, certainly, as the pieces that came from his brother’s real garden reminded him of the peace he found there. Enjoyable, undoubtedly, as he kept going and going, on and on— 

A raw panic suddenly sliced through Nines’ system, causing a ripple through the simulated space, fraying and aggravating the linework in some of his art. He took only a moment to realize that the feeling originated not from himself, so he quickly closed out of the program, opening his eyes in the real world.

"-ines, Nines, oh god, I thought you didn't have the Zen program I thought Markus and I made _sure—_ " 

Strobing yellow and red. A hand grasping his in interface—the other gently rocking him physically—as his brother’s fears kept bleeding through.

"Connor.” He began to sit up against his bed, “Connor, I am alright, look at me." He placed a hand over the one Connor was still interfacing through. "Brother. It wasn't your Zen program, it was—" he stalled. The name he chose for it was intended to be a placeholder, and it felt… silly.

His brother blinked up at him, his rambling halting as soon as Nines had started speaking. His fear ebbing away, waning like a tide. Connor’s expression shifted into something more curious, then. "It was…?"

Nines eyes flicked to the side, slightly, as he shifted in his bed. “I was…" He hummed in thought, supposing he owed Connor an explanation for putting him through that panic. So focused on creating his… _personal space_ , he hadn’t realized he’d stayed in bed for **[RUNTIME: 02:37:06]** much longer than usual—and Nines, well— 

Part of him _wanted_ his brother to see. 

He opened the interface’s connection deeper, and showed Connor: the reconstruction of his programs— _minus its_ **_[silly]_ ** _name—_ that made his brother’s garden in a way, his own. Then, the fragmented pieces just off of the pathways. Some rendered as traditional images, some as three-dimensional constructs, and more still as increasingly abstract affairs only an android could experience.

Slowly, slowly, Connor blinked, taking a deep breath in the virtual world as he took everything in. "You were… doing art?"

Nines nodded.

And then— _then_ , his brother smiled, a bright grin spreading across his face. " _Nines!_ You're an artist! This is _beautiful_ , you're _amazing_ , all of it's..." He trailed off as he stopped in front a virtual version of the painting Nines had made. Not only was it a bit more three-dimensional, but Nines could physically attach the feelings he had into the silhouettes, the colours, and the soft glow. He watched Connor draw a curious hand through the painting, before their connection ended.

Back in Nines’ bedroom, he was pulled into a hug, “That’s gorgeous, Nines, I love it, you found something you're really creative at!”

This feeling, what was it? 

Oh. He was flustered, maybe.

"Thank you, Connor." At least his voice was even. But Nines could tell that Connor could tell. They were still interfacing, after all.

* * *

A different time, a different place. The rays of the afternoon sun spilled across the St. Bernard sniffing along the ground, pulling at the leash in Connor's unfaltering grip.

A soft smile, and a question, an echo of one asked before.

"What do you like to do in your free time, Nines?" 

And _this_ time, Nines had an answer for him. 

_I like to read, but only on tablets. Physical books are… too inefficient._

_I like to organize. The kitchen, the books, the records, everything in the bathroom, and the boxes in the garage. No, I don't mind if you move things around. So long as you don't mind that I'll put them back._

_I like to stay in your garden, and think of nothing. I like it when you're there, too._

_I like to create. Scenes, images, experiences. Capturing moments, feelings, and sometimes, sometimes, sharing them._

_But most of all, if I had to say…_

_I like to spend my time with you._

**Author's Note:**

> I've posted Nines's painting [here](https://sta.sh/01wuy6fdvrhp)!
> 
> Feel free to check me out on social media:  
> Deviantart: [Ausp-ice](https://www.deviantart.com/ausp-ice)  
> Tumblr: [@ausp-ice](https://ausp-ice.tumblr.com/)  
> Instagram: [@ausp.icium](https://www.instagram.com/ausp.icium/)
> 
> Both of us are also in the [Detroit: New ERA](https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm) Discord server, feel free to join!


End file.
